Sherlock and John Face Non-Existence
by Mycroft-mione
Summary: It's a normal day in the London flat of 221B Baker Street until Sherlock and John watch a new show from the BBC... As elements of the fan world seep into the duo's London, things start to get fishy. Well, otter-y. And hedgehog-y.
1. Déjà Vu

It had taken three hours, 20 minutes, and 59 seconds of adamant persuasion (and a bit of outright begging) to convince Sherlock abandon his experiment and sit down, and another two hours to make him "shut up and watch the bloody program!". It seemed that the consulting detective had no use for television unless the weather forecasters were revealing a secret message in the weather maps, or, more likely, something was very, very, wrong. So it was no surprise to John that his flatmate was decidedly contemptuous of the new show John had discovered, despite lacking any idea whatsoever as to what it was about.

By the time Sherlock was in his chair, smirking at the DVD menu screen, John was struggling to keep himself from strangling the taller man with his bare hands. However, he was used to Sherlock's childlike stubbornness, so, biting his lip forcefully and glaring at his flatmate, he sat down and immediately pressed "play all" on the remote.

The episode began. Orchestral-sounding violin music started to play, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"John, did you really think I could tolerate this? Listen. This rubbish is for all you boring people who spend your time watching idiotic programs a child could have come up with...not me!" he exclaimed, getting up from his chair and heading for the door. "I'm off to St. Bart's. Oh, and pick up some milk later, we're running lo-"

"Shut up and look! Look what it says!" John cried, interrupting Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped where he was, halfway between the sofa and the door. He froze, staring at the word on the screen.

The word surrounded by a large image of the instantly recognizable London skyline.

The word he knew only too well.

"Sh-sh-sherlock?" he whispered.


	2. Tremors, Tea, and Transformation

John was worried. Few things had ever troubled Sherlock as much as the program sharing his name. It had, obviously, come as a shock to John as well, that he and his flatmate were fictional characters portrayed by famous actors on a television show, but there were some things you just had to accept. He reasoned that soon, Sherlock would get over it, and decided to act normal for the time being. He just hoped that his decision was the right one.

John walked into the kitchen, the morning after Sherlock's meltdown, wearing his dressing gown and a pair of fuzzy grey slippers. He heated some water on the stove and began to make tea. Suddenly, he heard a loud thump that reverberated throughout the flat. John put down his cup now emanating the calming aroma of herbal tea.

"Sherlock?" he called, walking into the hall. "Was that you?" There was no answer. His pace quickened as he raced towards Sherlock's bedroom door, knocking twice.

"Sherlock?!" he repeated. When there was no response, he flung the door open.

John gasped and stifled a high-pitched scream. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, doubting his senses. But he saw the same thing: _Sherlock was an otter. A handsome otter, but an otter nonetheless._ John looked down at his hands, and noticed they were shaking. At first he was reassured, thinking back to the day he had met Mycroft Holmes. Then he recalled that he had begun to notice tremors in times of stress, and his therapist's suspicion that his previous love of danger had been somehow replaced with "good old PTSD," and frowned. He turned his attention back to his best friend's startling transformation.

"John?" asked the otter in Sherlock's voice. "What happened?"

"What happened?!" John laughed. "What happened?!" He suddenly dissolved into laughter, chortling with the ridiculousness of the situation. Sherlock the Otter stared, puzzled, at the sight of John slapping his knee and laughing so hard tears came to his eyes. Then Sherlock shrugged (or tried to, but otters aren't meant to shrug) and started to walk out of the room to begin an experiment, but fell on his face. He got up, scratching his head, and promptly fell over again.

"What is going on?" Sherlock said, annoyed. He put one paw to his face and jumped. It was furry. He looked down at his body for the first time and screamed. _He was an otter! But why? He hadn't _tried_ to make himself an otter!..._ Sherlock sighed. This was going to be a problem.


	3. How Dense Are They!

John yawned softly. Light...coming in...window―flipping over. Ah, that was better. But what was that...sound...ugly loud. Ugh. Alarm...clock. He would have to get up. But why? Sheets...so soft…

"John!"

A voice cut into John's sleepy thoughts like a dagger. He found himself shocked into waking up-at the best of times, an hour-long ritual for him.

"Ullgghgh…" he croaked. "Sorry, what?"

"John, it's six in the morning! Get up! We need to talk," Sherlock's voice said. John blinked a few times and looked over at the otter that was his flatmate. Then it all came back to him: how, the previous day, they had bolted the door of the flat to stop Ms. Hudson from spotting Sherlock as an otter, and tried to figure out exactly which of Sherlock's experiments (gone awry) had caused the transformation. After hours of research they established that no human, in the history of the earth, had ever mysteriously morphed into an animal. Not that John was surprised at Sherlock's capability, but if this was a completely unique phenomenon, that just made it one step harder to fix─and to deal with emotionally. _How was he supposed to react to this anyway?_ John rubbed his eyes and realized Sherlock was still waiting for a response.

"Oh, okay. Right. Just...let me, uh, get changed! And...make some me tea!"

Sherlock's bored voice responded from the sitting room. "You're up, get it yourself. Besides, I'm…an otter. Otters can't make tea!"

John grumbled under his breath. In ten minutes, he emerged from the kitchen, fully dressed and carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He handed one to Sherlock, who made no move to take it, forcing John to personally place it into the otter's paw for him.

"You're welcome," John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You—don't, mean that, correct?" Sherlock asked, still keeping his eyes locked onto his computer screen.

"Correct!" John answered, rolling his eyes irritably.

"Now, we need to talk about that—program you showed me. Are you telling me that...we aren't real? That we are just _fictional characters_, invented by some random person?"

"I...I guess so. Listen, Sherlock, you never finished the episode, did you?"

"No, I didn't. I am most certainly not interested in what some _producer_," Sherlock spat the word, "thinks about us."

"Forget it, Sherlock, you have to finish watching," said John firmly. "It's called…A Study in Pink."

* * *

It was ten o'clock in the morning. John and Sherlock sat in their respective chairs, twenty minutes into the first episode of Sherlock.

"What _is_ this?" Sherlock said to John, bewildered. "How is this even possible―we're all fake? Me, you, Ms. Hudson? Lestrade? Anderson? Well, that one's not a pity…"

"Mary?" said John incredulously, chiming in.

"And look how I'm portrayed! Some freak of nature, that you have to be _warned_ about by my useless brother and Donovan! ...Come to think of it, a lot of this _did_ happen to us, didn't it?"

"It's a little disturbing...how these people know so much about our lives…" John mused. Then, the TV Sherlock started talking nonstop about a suitcase. Real Sherlock leapt to his feet and began shouting at the television screen.

"It's obvious, you morons! The murderer left the case somewhere after he gave the woman the pills, so the police wouldn't find her mobile! _Obviously_! How _dense_ are they?!"

"Thanks _so much_ for spoiling the ending, Sherlock," John said, annoyed. "Look, I know this must seem simple to you, but _some of us_ enjoy letting it all play out, you know…"

"If you're that bothered, just leave!" said Sherlock. "Oh, and, while you're out─"

"Get milk! I know!" John cried, exasperated. There was no hope.


	4. All Hail the Internet

As soon as Sherlock knew John was gone, he got to work. He didn't bother finishing the episode now that John wasn't there to force him, because he had already solved the case, and anyway, he could always look up the ending on the internet! _Speaking of the internet…_

Sherlock quickly sat down with his laptop, opened up a Google tab, and painstakingly typed in his query—well, tried to; he was still adjusting to being an otter! He impatiently waited until the screen loaded and then looked at what was listed.

Ah─two million results for "sherlock holmes detective". He would very busy that day.

* * *

John got into a cab two blocks away from 221B, after deciding that walking to the market would require too much exercise. As he sat down, and told the cabbie to head to the greengrocer's, he wondered how Sherlock was faring back at the flat...was he actually finishing the episode, or had he forgotten about it entirely and gone to start an experiment? John suspected it was the latter, but tried to take his mind off it.

"Could you turn the radio on, please?" he said to the cabbie, who grunted and reluctantly pushed the ancient car's radio button. "Thanks," John said, but it sounded like a question, as he was slightly confused by the driver's unfriendliness. _Some people..._ he thought.

Suddenly, John heard a familiar phrase uttered by one of the ubiquitous, chirpy radio hosts.

"...and tonight, make sure to tune in to Sherlock on BBC! Sherlock is an exciting modern take on the Sherlock Holmes stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman…"

John raised his eyebrows, shaking his head sadly. Wherever he was, this new program followed him.

* * *

Sherlock pondered the search results. Instead of the usual articles on crimes he had solved, he had found a strange assortment of Wikipedia pages, critics' reviews, and fan sites. Wherever his old life had gone, it wasn't coming back soon. On a lark, he clicked "images" on the webpage and frowned. "Always the stupid hat," he muttered.

After learning all about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his doppelganger, Sherlock decided the only way to truly understand John's television show was to read the original stories that inspired it. He put on his scarf, but not his coat—realizing that it was now much too large for him—and crept down the stairs, making sure that Ms. Hudson wouldn't see him as an otter. Then, he stole his way through dark alleys and dumpster-filled parking lots to the front steps of the London Library. It took almost no effort to steal (borrow, he told himself) a book of Sherlock Holmes mysteries from one of the prominent shelves. _Child's play_. Then, he left the building and went to a peaceful park, settling in to read. But what Sherlock didn't know was that halfway across the city, John was in trouble.


	5. Hedgehogs in Aisle Three

John didn't know what was happening until he checked his reflection in the glass case of the frozen foods aisle. Then he stifled a scream much louder than the one he gave in reaction to Sherlock's sudden otter-ness. Something excruciating was happening to him. His arms and legs felt like they were being liquefied, and then stabbed with red-hot needles all over. Suddenly, the shelves of ice cream rose way above his head, or—wait, no, he was shrinking. His clothes dwarfed him, and he struggled to emerge from the mass of jumper and trousers. Finally, all was still, and the pain of transformation disappeared.

John looked at himself through his small, beady eyes and panicked. _Where was his sandy hair, his human-sized arms and legs? Why were his clothes in a pile beside him that seemed impossibly large in comparison to himself? And, were those...spikes on his back?_ He nearly fainted with recognition. He was a hedgehog.

Sherlock was forced to take a separate route back to the flat after his library visit, after he noticed cameras lurking on rooftops near his planned path. Unfortunately, the idiot shop owners would probably call the police if they saw an otter walking upright through London. Which was a shame, really, because seeing something like that would have made _his_ day much more interesting.

Sherlock made the final dash towards the outside door to 221B, darting through a group of American tourist girls stupidly giggling about some man they'd seen. Then he heard a familiar voice behind him, but it sounded alarmingly different.

"John!" he exclaimed, pleased. Then he turned around, hushing himself. And looked at the hedgehog that was his flatmate. "Ah...I see. Well, where's the milk?"

"Sherlock?" said John, anger and disbelief choking his voice. "What the...are you _serious_?!"

"Look, John, it really isn't hard to buy things, even with your average mental capacity. I'm, frankly, surprised at you."

"I...am...a... _hedgehog_, Sherlock! My apologies if I didn't walk right up to the manager as a _spiky little talking mammal_ and ask for milk for my _insane_ otter flatmate!"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, appearing exceptionally annoyed. "Now, we should really get inside before a crowd forms."

A crowd already had. Some were clapping at what they believed to be very impressive special effects, others looked confused, and still others stood and stared. John and Sherlock hurriedly turned towards the flat door and John took out his key, but what they saw was not the gold lettering and knocker they expected. Instead, it was a blank, black door.

"What?!" cried John, his voice cracking in what was already a higher register than he was used to, being a hedgehog. "That's impossible! Sherlock, quick, try to push it open before─before an _animal control unit_ gets here." They both shoved with all their might, but it was no use-the door was shut for good. Sherlock's brow furrowed. He was, as hard as it was to admit, completely lost-but he couldn't let John know that. Then, he got an idea.

"John—come on, we have to go find Moffat!" he said, determined.

"Who's Moffat?"

"A writer and producer of _Sherlock_…" he said disdainfully. "Unlike you, _I_ did my research."

And without another word, Sherlock sprinted off into the night.

* * *

John himself prepared to get in a cab and catch up to his flatmate, but something else caught his eye. The crowd of people that had been surrounding them had not left, but instead shifted their focus to another man, standing nearby. John hopped over slowly to get a closer look, avoiding pricking people with his quills as he went. He edged his way into the circle of densely packed tourist feet, and got the important man's attention by stomping.

"Who—who are you?" he then squeaked cutely.

"Is it just me, or did the hedgehog just talk?" he said, pandering to the crowd. His "audience" laughed weakly. Then he shook his head in disbelief of the situation. "I'm Steven Moffat."

"Really?" said John happily, not believing his luck. "We need to talk to you!"

"We? You and what army?" Moffat replied.

"Me and Sherlock Holmes."


	6. The Mind Palace

**A/N: Here's Sherlock's mind palace. Sorry if this isn't your version of the palace-I literally just made it up as I went along. I would call it a cross between a pillow-stuffed library and a life-size iPad. See what you think (and, of course...REVIEW! I desperately need feedback!).**

Sherlock stopped to catch his breath as he ran through London, and suddenly wasn't sure where he was. But then he laughed at himself and went to his Mind Palace for help.

He walked through the breathtaking great hall. Its forty-foot ceiling, flawless arches, and gargantuan Greek columns filled the space with power that was perfect for a man of his sheer intelligence. Light streamed in through hundreds of windows; piercing, blinding light, but they were all too high up to reach. At night the space would be completely dark, cold, imboding, so Sherlock would move on to the chambers deeper within his mind palace.

He could run down the hallways where his encyclopedic memory was kept. With one flick of a wrist whole categories would spin, dance, transform, as they rushed to show him what was desired. Things as basic and boring as information were paper-thin and approaching invisibility in their translucence. They appeared like images, projected in the air from every angle imaginable, but small, and manageable, so as not to crowd the master of the palace.

In Sherlock's mind palace, he was wanted.

Those were the most commonly accessed rooms in his palace, but a few lay unused for long stretches of time. Sometimes new rooms appeared that weren't there before, and Sherlock would discover them when he went exploring at night. Like John's room.

John's room was a palace in of itself. It had a circular base, and the walls rose up, twenty, thirty, forty feet to make a perfect dome. The style was similar to his great hall, but John's room was warmer, somehow. Less grand, overbearing, and more comforting. In the center of the room, there were three small couches in a semi-circle surrounding a stone firepit. Even in summer, the firepit was always burning, although usually very calmly. But when Sherlock was worried about John, or thinking about John, the flames grew.

He could sit on a couch, feeling the warmth of the fire, and look around at all his memories and encyclopedic knowledge about John. _Who has John dated lately?_ Sherlock could think, and the women's pictures and deductions would appear to him. _How does John take his tea?_ He could ask, and the recipe would materialize-not that he ever used it.

Today, however, Sherlock spent only seconds in each room, looking for his map of London. Finally he found it, in a library full of practical, useful, information. He scoured it for any idea of where he was, and then found the fastest route back to the flat, where he hoped John was still standing.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and the mind palace faded away. Then he saw a dazzling flash of light, and the real world appeared again, almost too bright for his eyes.

"Time to find John," Sherlock murmured to himself.


	7. Sherlock, Benedict, John, and Martin

It didn't take long for Sherlock to reach John and Steven Moffat. He was irritated and partially embarrassed that he had gone running off and John had just walked (well, hopped) three feet over to where Moffat was standing. It was the sort of thing that always seemed to happen with John, which was unique, because everyone else knew that he, Sherlock Holmes, didn't make mistakes. Luckily, no one seemed to notice that he was winded and confused, despite the direct return route he had found in his mind palace.

"Hello, _Moffat_," Sherlock the otter said crisply, treating the man like an enemy.

"Oh, great," replied Moffat, mumbling to himself. He was starting to get unnerved by all the talking animals.

"Well, here he is," John squeaked, panicking. "Now can you please help us?! We don't know what's going on! Our flat, 221B, just disappeared, we both turned into animals, and we've just found out we don't exist! That is NOT the way I want to spend my Friday!"

Moffat laughed, and surprisingly, Sherlock guffawed (in the most otter-like way possible).

"John, relax…you're with Sherlock Holmes!"

"—and Steven Moffat!" Moffat interjected.

"Whatever, the point is, what could possibly go wrong?"

They soon found out.

Moffat carefully led his two companions through London, ignoring the strange looks that his group triggered. He was personally annoyed that at least ten women had come up to them and begged for a photo—not with him, but with the animals. He supposed it was the risk of being a producer, that much fewer people knew your name, but there was always somebody that would recognize you. _Oh, well,_ he thought. _Attention's not exactly what I want right now, with this lot in tow._

Finally they arrived at 187 North Gower Street, the real location of the iconic Baker Street façade. John was nonplussed at the sight.

"What're we here for, exactly?" the hedgehog said, hopping around in a circle so that he could see everything.

"Seriously? You don't know where we are?" Moffat and Sherlock cried at the same time. They looked at each other, and Sherlock humphed.

Suddenly, two familiar men appeared by Moffat's side. There was an awkward moment as the two sets of doppelgangers stared at each other.

Then Sherlock wrinkled his nose and spoke.

"God, it's like looking at me. But stupid," he scoffed.

"Well, thank you very much," laughed Benedict Cumberbatch. "But, really, Steven…is this a joke? Talking animals? …With my voice?"

Moffat didn't respond.

"What…what is going on?" said Martin Freeman.

"John, can't you tell? There's been some kind of mistake. This must all be a distraction…We have to get back to the flat!" Sherlock yelled. He started circling Benedict and Martin, paws raised threateningly. "You go on without me! I'll hold them off—"

"I didn't say anything," John interjected.

"That was me," said Martin.

"John?" asked Sherlock.

"Benedict?" asked Martin.

"No, Sherlock!" cried John.

"Martin?" asked Benedict.

Sherlock looked down at John, confused. John looked at Martin, who stared back at him, then turned to Benedict, whose eyes were fixed on Sherlock, until he noticed his colleague's gaze and responded with an inquiring one of his own. Martin had no answers, and looked at Sherlock to see what the fuzzy little otter was thinking. Meanwhile, Benedict looked at John, who looked at Sherlock, who looked at Benedict and Martin at the same time.

Then, Sherlock stomped over to where Moffat was watching, amused, and threw his magnifying lens at Moffat's kneecap. It bounced off, undamaged, which made Sherlock both duly relieved and irritated.

"You're a producer of '_Sherlock_', John said. Obviously. Only a member of the BBC or any television-related group would wear a tie that _garish_. But what's interesting about you… well, you're married, of course. But's that's uninteresting."

"Of course? Why of course?"

"It's simple, really. Your shoes. They're newly shined, yet your socks don't match. You remember to shine your shoes, yet you can't manage matching socks? Unlikely. Your wife had it done; only she's off traveling so she can't oversee your clothing choices now."

"That's enough, Sherlock," John said, hoping to keep the braggy deductions to a minimum.

"All right then, so we're at the filming site for '_Sherlock_'. What's going on? And how can _he_ look exactly like me?!" Sherlock questioned irritably.

"I'm sorry, little me, but we don't have any answers either," said Benedict. "You're a fictional character, while Martin and I…we're actors."

Sherlock glowered.

"But we'll help, of course," saved Martin, feeling generous. "I have to meet Amanda later, but if you two want to catch a drink or something now, with Benedict, Steven, and me…"

"Sure," laughed John. "Two famous actors, a producer, a hedgehog, and one grumpy otter sitting together in a bar… What could go wrong?"

"It's a date," said Moffat, still chuckling.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the BBC comment. That was Sherlock talking, not me! (Remember, read and review!)**


	8. A Table for Six?

A stranger group was never seen at Blakes Restaurant. Moffat had used his connections to book every table in the bar for free, to avoid awkward questions from other patrons (about the talking animals) that would normally get them kicked out.

"Hi, everybody," said Amanda Abbington sweetly as she walked towards the table.

"Mary!" cried John, his beady eyes bulging out of his spiky head. He hopped over to Amanda and accidentally stabbed her with one of his quills.

"Ow!" she yelled. Then she had second thoughts. "Sorry," she whispered.

"No, I'm sorry," John squeaked politely.

"That's okay," Amanda replied. Then she blinked, taking a closer look at John, and turned to Martin. "Is that—hedgehog—talking to me?" Her eyes were wide with fear.

"Unfortunately…yes. There's quite a lot we need to tell you…" Martin informed her.

"Wait a minute. That hedgehog called me Mary. This sounds crazy, but…is he John? Like, an animal version of John Watson?"

Amanda glanced around the table, unsure of the reception her comment would yield.

"I'm afraid so," said Sherlock. "It's very inconvenient; now he can't fetch my things!"

"So that makes you…Sherlock Holmes. Oh, no…" Amanda said, deflated.

"My sentiments exactly," interjected Moffat.

Sherlock put his paws on his hips and tried to order dinner from a passing waiter. When the man's eyes bulged out, Sherlock started yelling savagely.

"I said I want oysters. Do you want to be fired? Because I can get you fired!"

The server trembled visibly.

"No he can't," said John, reassuring the waiter, who was obviously touchy about his job. This second talking animal, unfortunately, just scared the server more, and John watched as he rushed away from the table, muttering something about a previous engagement. Sherlock scowled at John. _Suddenly an oyster craving had struck him; was that such a crime?_ He sighed. _But otters like oysters, don't they? Oh dear…_


	9. The Cab Ride

**A/N: Drum roll, please! *millions of ecstatic followers drum roll for me* [Thanks!] I finally updated the story! Sorry it took longer than I expected, but at least it's up there. And one of the longest chapters, too! (I'm way too proud of myself.) Ok, I'm going to stop talking now. Like usual, read and review please!**

"Thanks for picking up the tab, Martin," said John, as he sat uncomfortably in Martin's cradled arms, trying not to poke the man but utterly failing. Every other word of his was punctuation with a curse or a growl from his counterpoint. Their ride back from Blakes had been only two minutes long, but already tempers were running high-mainly among Martin and Sherlock. Benedict and Moffat were riding separately, as Benedict had somewhere "important" to be and Moffat was taking every opportunity he could find to extract himself from Sherlock- and John's messy situation.

"Oh, sure," said the usually pleasant Martin Freeman. "Because I just lo-ove being stabbed by a little spiky problem and his friend with an attitude, who I _thought_ was just a character. Yep, that's definitely my idea of a perfect day!"

"Here, if John is such as big problem, then I'll take him," interjected Amanda Abbington kindly.

"That's okay," sighed John, resigned to his fate. "I'll go crawl into the back with Sherlock."

"What's that?" grunted the elderly cab driver.

"Oh, nothing," said Amanda warmly. "We're just playing videos of well-known characters on my phone. It's not like there could be real characters in this cab," (she laughed) "sitting in our laps, now could there?!"

"Mmm-hmm," the driver responded.

"All right," said Amanda, "We're fine. He's not listening anymore."

"Good!" exclaimed Sherlock, who was hunched up in the small back row, next to John who had climbed there after Martin grumbled. "Back to useful matters...such as...what about my experiments? They're sitting back at the flat, which we can't get in to, as it has...disappeared. What am I supposed to do? Forget about them?"

"You seem to have forgotten that we have _nowhere to live_, Sherlock. Unless this fixes itself _pretty soon_, your experiments will be the least of our worries! You're...smart, tell me, what are we going to do?"

John seemed on the verge of crying, or the closest thing to it to which hedgehogs are capable. Sherlock noticed the more-than-average puffiness of the hedgehog's face and decided to give up his dispute. He raised himself up on two paws, glanced out the spotty cab window at the lights that illuminated the darkness falling upon London, like every time that night comes, and swallowed. It was dark out there...and wherever they were headed, there was no Mrs. Hudson to cook them a hot dinner.

"Fine, I'll tell you. I don't know what's going on, and...how this happened, and how to fix it. I'm going to...need help."

John shrugged, grinning.

"Well, at least you've admitted tha-"

"But I need to know. Where is Mrs. Hudson? Amanda, look it up."

"Who do you think you are to order me around?!" she demanded to Sherlock.

"Please, Ma-Amanda," said John. He sighed in relief that he had caught himself before calling Amanda 'Mary' again. "Just do it."

Amanda took out her purse and then her mobile. She waited for it to turn on and then tapped 'internet.' Googling "Mrs. Hudson," she scrolled down through page after page of results, and finally flipped her case onto the phone and turned it off.

"I'm sorry, boys," she said. "The only results are TV-show related ones, and a few random people who live in-California, can you believe it?"

She stopped herself, seeing their mournful looks.

"But we're really sorry-aren't we, Martin?" She prodded her husband who had fallen asleep. "I'm afraid your landlady doesn't exist anymore, in this world, I suppose."

There was a quiet pause. Then John took a breath and spoke.

"So what are we going to do?"

Amanda chewed her lip, thinking. Finally, she grinned and hopped up and down in her seat belt, demanding to share her idea.

"That's it! I know where you can stay overnight! It may not be very comfortable, and it'll take some work so you don't get stuck there..."

"Go on!" John cried.

"Well...it's...the pet shop! Isn't that great?!" she said.

"Oh, no," muttered John.


	10. Whiskers and Tails

**A/N: Here's the long-awaited (mostly by me) chapter 10! It's a bit longer than average, but that's been the trend with me lately. Enjoy, and review please! Even one sentence will do! And remember - I own... nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. *cries***

* * *

With the tinkle of welcome bells, Sherl-otter and John-hog tentatively entered the pet shop known affectionately by locals as 'Whiskers and Tails'. They jumped in reaction to the unexpected sound. Exchanging resolute glances, they tiptoed (in Sherlock's case) and scurried (in John's case) towards the front counter, rehearsing the plan in their minds. Amanda would play the concerned, then flighty, good citizen who had found the unusual animals 'roaming the city', and kindly brought them to the shop. Sherlock and John were to act normal (a point unnecessarily stressed by John, in Sherlock's opinion), while displaying an obvious attachment to each other so that they might be put in cages adjacent to each other, enabling the occasional whispered word between them during the night. Then, just as the wide-eyed welcome lady's eyes popped, seeing the animals' approach ─ _what _was_ she called?_ thought John suddenly ─ Amanda stumbled in, but recovered herself, straightening her expensive coat collar and smiling warmly at the shell-shocked... _receptionist_? John decided to think of the poor woman as that kind of employee.

"Evening," Amanda said. In the momentary opportunity, John glanced over at his best friend and was appalled.

"Sherlock!" he snapped, trying to keep his lips from moving visibly. "Cut it out!"

Sherlock had been standing on his hind paws, and folding his arms in a particularly human-like way. He reluctantly straightened, dropping all four carefully manicured webbed paws to the floor.

"Satisfied, John? You're the one who's _talking_!"

"Ssh. She'll hear you!"

The receptionist, starting to realize that she was actually hearing other voices, cocked her head to listen. Amanda smoothly continued, sneaking a glare in Sherlock's direction a moment later. He muttered something that sounded very much like 'humbug'.

"So what I was wondering is - I know this is _very_ sudden..."

"John!" whispered Sherlock, pouting as well as he could, being an otter.

"What now?" answered John, thinking of daisies and sunshine to avoid wanting to strangle Sherlock. It was a strategy recommended to him by Ella, his old therapist, when thoughts of the war threatened to overwhelm him. While being ludicrous and totally unsuccessful, at least the recommendation made him laugh. Then John remembered he was allergic to daisies. "Honestly, I really don't care what street the receptionist lady lives on, just want Amanda to get us a place for the night. This is our best shot, Sherlock! Now stop whining and start acting your age!"

"John, don't be ridiculous. In otter years, I'm four. Therefore, I have a perfectly viable excuse for any behavior you might find _in_excusable. ...Do your research."

"That expression's getting _really_ old, Sherlock..."

"Do your research. Do your research," Sherlock repeated, leaning in towards John, trying to irritate him.

"Oh, shush. But the lady's going to get suspicious if you keep dusting off your fur and glaring at her! Can't you just cut it out, for once in your life?!" John insisted. "This is the last time I'm going to ask you."

"I sincerely doubt that," muttered the otter under his breath.

"...So, you see, it would be wonderful if you could make room for these two. You can, can't you?" said Amanda sweetly. John saw her visibly turn on the charm for the receptionist.

"Er... I'm really sorry, but-" said the receptionist, trying to get a word in. _Why do I even try_, she thought. _It's hopeless_. _What was it with single women and homeless animals?_

"Great! I'll just leave them with you, then!" Amanda interrupted. She gently shoved the animals forward, one hand behind each of them, trying to turn and leave while still appearing responsible. Sherlock squirmed in her hand, making her latch on to him more forcefully, which provoked yet another gyrating fit from the otter. John watched in amusement as Sherlock tried to escape Amanda's grasp and Amanda chased him around the shop. The other animals (everything from parakeets to iguanas) paid rapt attention. Finally Amanda, trying not to trample the otter, caught ahold of the scruff of Sherlock's neck and held on tight. "Here you are! One feisty otter and one well behaved he─ ...where's John?!" she exclaimed. The receptionist opened her mouth, as if she were about to speak, but thought better of it. Her eyes remained wide with fear and confusion.

"Squeak!" said John not-very-convincingly. "_Squeak_..."

He was standing (on all four paws) beside an empty hedgehog-sized cage, his face triumphant. As well as tired. The pair had been on their feet for hours on end, and John was just beginning to notice the effects. It had been predictably difficult to keep up with Sherlock, even in otter form, because of his own short legs. The humans? Impossible!

"There he is," announced Amanda. "Now you can take them. Have a lovely evening, madam." And with that she headed for the door, after glancing longingly at the adorable rabbits by the window. She would have to ask Martin for one later.

"Wait... you called the hedgehog 'John'?" inquired the bewildered receptionist, holding out her hand to Amanda - who was long gone. "But ─ wait... fine. But just for one night!" she told the animals. "Then ─ for heaven or high water ─ you're _out_, understand?!" she cried. Then she shook her head. "Now I'm talking to the animals, just like that batty lady... oh well, better close up shop."

She locked John into the small cage he'd been standing next to, and then forced Sherlock into a larger, adjacent one. After she had locked the door, shut off the lights, and left, John dared to speak to Sherlock through the bars of their cages.

"Whew, we're safe. I wish she'd left a light on, though. Where am I supposed to get food in this place?"

"John, you just had dinner. I would think you would want to lose weight, considering the image you must strive to maintain, as a doctor?"

"What's your problem today?! First it was the acting human, then the struggling with Ma─ _Amanda_, and now you're insulti─ hey! What did you say about my weight?! My weight is perfectly adequate, mister! It's you who's been eating too many biscuits when you think I'm not looking."

"So sue me. You're the one who always says I need to eat more! Happy, John?"

"I'm going to sleep. I suggest you do as well."

"..."

John's beady eyes sent a steely gaze in what he assumed was Sherlock's direction. "What, are you asleep _already_?"

The answer reverberated through the darkness eerily.

"No, simply contemplating the viability of my potential escape through these handy bars I bent with my incisors a moment ago," answered Sherlock. "I would let you out too, although I hazard a guess that you might be a liability. Unfortunately, it's a risk I'll have to take."

"You wouldn't last a minute without me, and I'm not going anywhere. Look, I think I know what's eating at you."

"Uh huh. Going to sleep now."

"You're all bothered because you don't like that we had to ask for help from someone! You're so used to being all 'big tall consulting detective' with your hat and your fancy-schmancy collar that you can't stand being at someone's mercy!"

"Oh come on. You're always telling me to eat, and I'm fine with _that_..."

John snorted. "As if," he squeaked. "Aw, it's all right, Sherlock; I get it. But can you just not take it out on me this time? I'm sorry that this all happened to us. Frankly, it sucks. But we just have to work together!"

"Okay, John."

"Thanks. See you in the morning," John said contentedly, knowing that an 'okay' was the best he could expect to receive. He curled up in his cage, and closed his eyes, rubbing them with his paws. As he began to drift off, he spoke again.

"Sherlock?" he called softly.

But his friend was fast asleep. And John, not minding the silence, soon joined him there.


	11. A Captive Audience

A/N: I hope you enjoy this extremely belated update to SaJFNE. Yes, that's what I call it in my doc manager. No, I'm not proud of myself. I don't have cookies, but reviews are always welcome.

* * *

**Chapter 11 - A Captive Audience**

* * *

Of course something had to happen. Of course it wasn't a nice, peaceful, relaxing good thing. Of course it was instead a quite terrible bad and negative thing. Of course they couldn't spend the night in the secured wire cages of a perfectly safe pet shop and expect everything to be all right.

_Of course_, thought John, _he would waste his time thinking up 'of course' statements in the dead of night when there was plenty of panicking and running around blindly to do._

So he stopped thinking and started running. Running, because the moment he woke from the fitful dreams of a once-human hedgehog, he realized that he was alone in the shop.

While before, he and Sherlock had been surrounded by a menagerie of scary animals - all of which seemed to make some scary purr or hiss or growl - now it was just John, surrounded by empty cages with no cats or snakes or growly pets in sight. This was fairly troubling. John's hysterical pacing of the shop on his little hedgehog legs gave way to full-out sprints from one side of the store to the other. Each such lap took a minute or so, but still, it was impressively panicky.

And John then came to the realization that since he was alone, it meant Sherlock had to be missing too.

"Sherlock..." he squeaked slowly. After a last desperate 360-degree glance around him his suspicions were confirmed. "I'm alone," he said mournfully. "Where _are_ you?"

But there was no answer. John investigated the cages where the pair of them had been sleeping, and saw no sign of a struggle other than the bars Sherlock had bent the previous night. His own cage was unlocked from the outside, revealing to John how he had been able to leave it easily the minute before. But Sherlock's? Its latch was firmly closed, and, upon further examination, John saw that it had been glued in place. There was no way even Sherlock could have escaped.

"They took away the animals because they were witnesses," he breathed, seeing the hastily opened cages and tanks of glass on the high shelves above.

John knew that he couldn't speak the language of real animals, only English, but surely the animals would have understood and tried to help him using gestures. The man/woman/beast/force/country responsible for their disappearance (John tried not to make assumptions) had made sure he would be very, very alone when he woke.

John sat down on the cold tile floor, feeling hopeless. He would never see his friends again. He would never be free of this haunting shop. He would never eat fish and chips again...

He had been seated for only a few minutes when a flash of light blinded his little black eyes. He blinked, then stood on his back legs to try and see over the windowsill where the light was coming from. As short as he was, John quickly identified it. Between the slats of the corded blinds he watched the sun rise.

John knew what he had to do.

* * *

Of course something had to happen to ruin his perfectly crafted plan to steal some glazed donuts and return before his friend awoke. Of course that something had to do with Moriarty.

He came to just before sunrise, jumping up from where he had been laid down. But he stumbled and fell to his paws, his head swimming with blanks instead of data. He was in a room made of concrete bricks - or was it plaster? And there were four walls - five? Plus a roof and a floor equalled... what?

For a world-renowned consulting detective, numbers were proving to be his greatest enemy. Trusting his broad-ranging experience with incapacitation, this told him that something was wrong. _Something's _wrong_?_ _What__ a brilliant deduction_, said John in his head.

"Shuddup," he muttered. "Let me think."

Sherlock knew immediately what kind of drugs had been used and in what solution, but for the life of him he couldn't find the injection site, so neutralizing the poison was impossible. He would have to work on 50% brainpower for the moment. Not an uncommon task.

He was just about to brainstorm escape routes when a hidden door opened in the prison wall. Out stepped a man with a twisted grin, an oscillating head, a horrible ringtone.

Moriarty: just like he thought.

"Let's not play these games, Jim," Sherlock mumbled nonchalantly. He leaned against the walls, looking entirely too imposing for a diminutive scarf-wearing otter.

But his true enemy looked back at him, and there was no reptilian glint in his eyes, just confusion. He tugged on his shirt collar with one hand and scratched his head with the other.

"Yeah... about that..."

"What?"

"Um. I'm Andrew Scott?"


End file.
